


Forever

by Stitched_Inside (relativelyunknown)



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Canon Compliant, Characters aged up, Cheesy romance ending in dirty smut things., Circus/Aerialist Themes, Graphic Description, Light Bondage, M/M, POV First Person, POV Heero Yuy, Post-Preventer Timeline, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-29 13:18:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15730185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/relativelyunknown/pseuds/Stitched_Inside
Summary: A friendly visit with an old battle buddy inspires a newly formed long-distance relationship. Unable to cope with the challenges of such an arrangement, and filled with the blossom of newly realized emotions, Heero seeks Trowa out to tell him (and show him) how he feels.





	Forever

**FOREVER**   
A 1x3x1 Gundam Wing FanFiction   
_Gift Fic, at request for Morbidbirdy_

 

I once told someone very important to me to act on their emotions. It was a mantra that I thought had served me well, something that in my youth I’d always firmly believed in.

I believed that if one was passionate about something and that the heart felt it was the right thing to do, then it can't possibly be a bad decision.

I was young and stupid then. Idealistic. Cocky. I thought I had the world figured out, that I knew better than everyone else. By adopting that way of thinking I had failed to really consider many situations and dangers I had faced. I hurt people, because in that moment I felt it was right. I abandoned others who hurt me, my knee-jerk reaction one of self-preservation but a choice that ultimately brought pain to those I ran away from.

It's a selfish way to live, but it’s the _only_ way I know how.

It's been six years since I ran away from it all.

The Eve War had done something to me that I never thought possible. It had humbled me. Wufei's anguished words about life, death and the plight of a soldier had made me question my own existence.

Who was I anymore? What’s my place in this world, this place for which we all had fought to establish peace - Total Pacifism?

It was then that I had tried to stop following my emotions. It was too dangerous for that kind of blind, hopeful action. There was no room in the world for my feelings.

After all of the hell I’d endured during Operation Meteor and the conflict with Mariemaia’s forces I didn't want to kill anymore, but a part of me still thirsted for a life of fighting and war.

I was conflicted, confused. Everyone told me I could use that drive for positive things, for good, but I didn't believe them. For a few months I followed Relena around like a lost puppy, not quite fitting in to my new role as her personal lap dog. Duo was disgusted by my choice to follow her lead, so he he bullied me into joining Preventer.

I had thought it would be a good fit for me, but I was wrong. In the time we had all fought together I’d never really worked with the others as a team. I had trouble establishing myself as an agent and conforming to the rules our new, peaceful world had put into place.

Preventer was an organization that policed and prevented violence. They didn't _condone_ violence in any form. They issued agents guns, but we were banned from using them.

I know. No logic there.

I learned quickly that I was, by nature, a violent person. Whether that be a conscious choice or a result of my fucked up upbringing, I’m still not sure.

Nobody could understand this, and everyone ridiculed me for it, made jokes about my inability to restrain myself in work-related altercations.

I ended up hurting people when it wasn’t necessary. I tended to draw my gun whenever I could.

The last straw was when I shot someone during a routine investigation, my anxious mind having convinced me that my partner at the time was in danger. She wasn’t. The perpetrator had done nothing to warrant such a violent action.

I was put on administrative leave while the situation was investigated. I plead guilty, against the advice of my lawyer and counselor. I had shot the man. He had lived. I did the wrong thing.

The problem was that the administration felt bad for me. They realized, as well as everyone else, that I didn't know anything else. That I was a violent person, a former weapon, that I wouldn't be able to function outside of that default state of mind, and that if they didn't let me stay within the control of the agency then I would just be a potential danger to everyone else.

That eventually I may become a threat.

The only person who didn't think that about me was Trowa.

Out of everyone I’d known during and after the wars, Trowa was the only one who seemed to get me. He’d worked with Preventer shortly after the Eve War but then resigned before I had joined up.

I never knew the reason until shortly after I, too, had left the agency. He had called me out of the blue once, just to talk, and had admitted to me that he felt out of place there. That he didn’t trust himself to be better than those Preventer sought to find and manage.

His words spoke to me. It was just how I’d been feeling.

He promised to meet up with me sometime. Shortly after I got a text from him asking to meet on L4 where he was performing with his sister and The Circus. The short text message simply said, “Have a drink with me, like old times?”

The irony being the last time we _“drank”_ together had been when we were kids during Operation Meteor, when he had poured half a bottle of whiskey down my throat to put me into a stupor before he roughly shoved my shoulder back into place.

Good times.

I was nowhere near L4. I was living on L1 but had been so happy to be asked to hang out I quickly said I would be there.

So I went. I’d been curious to know how he was faring, what his life was like outside of Preventer. Everyone else seemed content to just follow the party line and to continue _“fighting for peace.”_ Other than Quatre, who moonlighted as an agent while he continued working for his own company, everyone else had been sucked into Preventer cult.

I wanted to know if there was hope for me. If someone like Trowa, who was so much like myself, could actually be living a _normal_ life.

I found him at the circus two weeks later, hanging upside down by his ankles from a pair of long, thick red silks, dressed in a skin tight black leotard and tights.

That was hardly a normal life.

He looked happy, hanging upside down, smiling at me, defying gravity as much as he always had. I couldn't help but think of how many times I saw him in that same position, floating carelessly upside down, hovering overhead while tinkering with something or another on Heavyarms in the microgravity of space.

Now, rather than a space suit, he was dressed in practically nothing. I preferred him in this kind of _practical nothing_.

Had Trowa always been so well endowed?

I hadn't noticed before.

It was a strange visit. Here was a guy I’d known since I was fifteen, someone I had faced death with, who had saved me more times than I could count, walking around sleek and elegant like a ballet dancer, talking to me as if he were my best friend. As if nothing had ever changed. As if we hadn't gone our separate ways, as if the war had never ended.

The more I watched Trowa travel through the world with his carefree, confident nonchalance the more I realized how much I envied him. He had it all; good looks, friends, family, a career he loved. Trowa was one of the fiercest, most ruthless killers I’d ever met and yet here he was, joking around with these circus performers, dancing in the air to whimsical music for a career. The people around him, save for his sister Catherine, knew nothing of his sordid past.

He was free from it. Somehow he had transcended his situation, had made a life for himself, was living the way he wanted.

I wanted that, too, but I had no idea where to start.

That night I watched him from backstage as he performed in front of a packed audience. Later we had drinks in his dressing room and I told him how I felt about his life, how envious I was that he'd been getting on so well.

Talking to Trowa was easy. Soon I found myself telling him everything, all the shit that happened at Preventer, how I felt about myself, how I felt I couldn’t bond with others. I told him I didn’t think I could ever not be a soldier, that I could really live happily within the model of Total Pacifism.

He had listened to me pour my heart out to him with a concerned, worried expression, sitting on one of the steamer trunks in his glittering golden performance costume, a glass of vodka on hand, brilliant green eyes staring straight through me. When I had finally finished my rant he downed the rest of his drink and set the empty glass on his vanity next to a row of stage makeup, lifted a pink brush from the table and turned it over in his hand.

“It's all an act,” he had said to me. “The longer you act the part, the more you come to believe it yourself.”

It hadn't been the sentiment I’d expected. What had he been trying to say?

It had suddenly occurred to me that what I was seeing since my arrival was his act, his mask, the face he’d been putting on for everyone else. It had been so convincing that I’d fallen for it, too.

Sitting there with the brush in hand, he frowned for the first time since I got there and in that moment I saw everything for what it really was.

He was alone, just as much as I was, the only difference being he'd surrounded himself with smiling faces, beautiful people, shining lights and music all so he could cope. It was his way of moving on, of trying to forget what he really was.

So nothing had really changed for Trowa, had it? The boy I’d met years ago, with the beautiful yet deadly serious face, the pilot who hid behind a mask, was still hiding, only now he hid in plain sight and people came from all over and paid to see him.

I, too, had fallen in love with his lovely, sorrowful, irresistible mask.

I don't know what came over me. Watching him as he frowned down at that pink makeup brush, I couldn't stand to see how his words had cracked his perfectly placed facade. The only way I knew how to apologize for bringing it all up was to kiss him.

So I did.

Up until that moment I’d only kissed three people. My first had been Relena, shortly after Operation Meteor. The second had been a random person, still unnamed, at a Preventer New Year's party, and the third had been Duo, to get him to shut up during a long recon mission. (He had sat beside me, stunned, for an hour after that. It was the most peaceful hour I’d ever spent with him to date.)

None of the kisses I’d given thus far had been emotionally driven.

This one was definitely different.

There was something familiar, comfortable, about touching Trowa. Kissing him had happened without hesitation, without plan. I simply wanted to kiss his frown away, to make him feel better, to apologize for ruining our good time, for making him hurt.

It ended all too soon. I shouldn't have broken it off when I had. When I opened my eyes he was staring at me, bewildered, wide-eyed. He was stunned.

I thought for a moment that he was upset, and that I may have crossed the line. I didn't know anything about his situation, if he was involved with anyone, if he even cared for me in that way. I immediately began to regret having done it, and had opened my mouth to apologize for it when he leaned forward to kiss me back.

However, his lips never made it to mine. As fate would have it the power in the dressing room had suddenly cut out, and the emergency lights sprang to life, glowing red overhead. He jumped up and groped around in the dark, cursing under his breath, searching for a flashlight. By the time he found one his sister had burst into the dressing room looking for him, complaining about their circuit breaker which supposedly was in need of replacing, and yelling something along the lines of, _“by God Trowa, you're a mechanic, fix the damn thing!”_

The party was over. Trowa had muttered a few apologies to me as he fished out a toolbox, ironically the same scuffed and scraped old rectangular box he used to keep in his Gundam, before being carted off by his sister to make his repairs.   
  
As I watched him walk away, dressed in a glittering golden skin-tight costume with heavy eye makeup clutching his beat-up tool box, I felt that it was a strangely perfect depiction of who he was as a person. Flashy, gorgeous, yet independent and capable.

I went back to my hotel room disappointed. Our visit had been too short and I was beginning to wish I had planned to stay longer.

Late that night I got another text from him asking when and where my flight was leaving from. I told him. He promised to meet me at the downtown spaceport to see me off the following morning.

I got no sleep that night, too worried about how our night had ended. I kept replaying the instant that Trowa's lips sought out my own. What would have happened had the lights not gone out? How far would that entire scene have played out?

I had a few ideas about that and spent the late hour alone in my hotel room, exploring those thoughts, shamelessly imagining the things I would have done to Trowa had we not been interrupted.

It wasn't the first time I had thought of Trowa in that way. Of everyone I’d ever met, Trowa always stuck out as one of the most attractive. He had been branded the _“pretty boy”_ of our pilot team by Duo during the Eve War, which was something I never argued. (Duo had jokingly referred to Trowa as “the fuckboy” once as well, but that quickly won him another cracked rib, courtesy of my fist.)

While Quatre was lovely to look at, Trowa was in my opinion the perfect mixture of power and elegance, seemingly fragile one moment and then suddenly viciously brutal on the battlefield in the next.

He was hot, and the more I thought about it, the more I realized he was everything I was attracted to.

He was effortlessly sexy. I liked it. I liked the slight sway of his hips when he walked, how he padded across the stage during his performance much in the same way he walked anywhere, one foot directly in front of another, balanced and confident, leisurous yet purposeful in motion. I could recall staring at his ass in his tight denim when we were stupid, horny teenagers. The night before I had done much the same, Trowa's tights leaving little to the imagination.

Trowa had aged well. More than _well_ , he had matured. He was a stunning sight to behold.

And I'd kissed him. How long had it been since I'd first thought of doing that?

I could distinctly recall the first time I’d entertained the idea, the memory immediately flooding into my thoughts. It had been during the Eve Wars. Duo and I had infiltrated barge, and when we finally made it to the control room there Trowa had been, dressed in enemy uniform, smugly waiting for us.

He’d done his part of the mission seamlessly. We were late.

If Duo hadn't been there I would've kissed him, I was so happy to see him. It had been hours since our last communication, and things were so hectic that I had no way of knowing his status.

Not that I needed to worry about him. Trowa always got his work done, and never needed anyone to bail him out, unlike Duo who needed breaking out of prison every other assignment.

What if Duo hadn't been there. What if I had realized how I felt about him back then, on mission, watching him as he smirked at me from the control panel. Would I have acted on it, like how I did that night at the circus? Would he have been my first kiss rather than Relena?

It was then, lying on my back with my hand down my pants, eyes closed, stroking myself while thinking of Trowa in his lycra spandex that I realized something I should have known all along.

I liked Trowa. I’d always liked him.

It was why, moments after receiving an invitation to visit him, I 'd purchased a flight to L4. It was why I trusted him implicitly, and never doubted him. It was why I’d kissed him, and why I was so disappointed that our first truly intimate moment had been interrupted.

Why had it taken me so long to realize it?

The following morning I went to the spaceport feeling surprisingly anxious. With our kiss fresh on my mind I waited just outside of the security checkpoint, bag in hand, awkwardly shifting my weight from one foot to the other, trying to plan out what I was going to say:  


_Listen, Trowa, about last night…_

_You know, the kiss was-_

_… sorry, not sorry…_

I was at a loss, impatiently waiting and simultaneously dreading the moment he would arrive. When he finally appeared, doing his sexy walk straight for me, confident as always, I actually debated pretending not to see him coming. I didn't know what to say, maybe by looking the other way he’d have to speak first.

Except I couldn't look away, and neither could anyone else who happened to notice him as he passed by.

Being that fucking attractive should seriously be criminal. People thought _I_ was a danger to society, and yet here was Trowa stopping foot traffic and causing full grown men to unwittingly drop their luggage on the nearby escalator.

He stopped directly in front of me, a hand on his hip, smirking. Waiting. I just stared at him dumbly, unable to speak.

“Hey…” he finally broke the ice, his simple greeting curling the corner of his mouth into an amused smile.

That mouth…

“You didn't have to come all the way here,” I 'd stupidly replied. He chuckled.

“I abandoned you last night for a rusty circuit breaker. It's the least I could do…”

I instantly developed an intense hatred for rudimentary, antique electronics.

“Thank you for inviting me,” I replied, sincerely. I hadn't been off of my colony at L1 in months and it had been refreshing to travel.

There was an awkward silence that followed. Was Trowa going to bring it up or was I going to have to?

I knew I would have to own up to my actions eventually, so I swallowed the lump in the back of my throat and just went for it.

“About last night-”

The intercom overhead announced my gate number. I frowned.

Trowa was staring at me, a perfectly shaped eyebrow poised elegantly, expressing his curiosity.

Fuck my gate. Fuck the flight, I had thought desperately. At that point I didn't care whether I never got home to my shabby, shithole of an apartment. I didn’t need to go to school, fuck my degree, student loans? Everyone has them.

What had I meant to say?

“It was nice.”

I blinked. It took me a few moments to compute Trowa's words.

He smiled, no doubt finding my social malfunction amusing.

“You should kiss me again,” he requested firmly as his hand grasped my shoulder.

He was commanding me. Had he been anyone else I would have rebelled, indignant that someone dared to tell _me_ what to do, but this was different. This was Trowa, staring down at me expectantly, confident that I would do as he asked.

How could I not?

I grabbed him by the back of the neck, intending on pulling him closer so I could fulfill his request but there was no need for force. He met me in the middle, his lips pressing needily against my own.

He tasted so good, faintly minty. Had he been anticipating this kiss? I imagined him standing in the parking lot, smoothing his hair, slipping a stick of gum in his mouth as he walked briskly from his motorcycle to the entrance of the spaceport.

He smelled amazing, fresh and clean. The hair at his nape was soft against my palm, and I could feel the tightly wound muscle at the base of his neck relax as our lips gently felt, traced, and explored each other.

He had been as nervous as I was. I would have never known it by looking at him, but I could feel it, the relief in his sigh, the softening of his mouth as he willingly opened it to me.

I felt drunk, sloppy, unable to focus as every intimate detail of Trowa’s body bombarded my mind. The way I had to tilt my face up to meet his, how he affectionately caressed my jaw with his soft fingers as we kissed. The sensation of his chest nudging mine through my jacket, the way he shifted his hips against my hand as I grabbed his waist, pulling him closer, possessively, not wanting to let him go.

Another announcement. A boarding call for my flight. I ignored it. He didn’t.

I frowned as he broke our contact, pulling away reluctantly.

“You're going to miss your flight,” he murmured. He was frustrated, his mouth had hardened, his eyes glossing over. He'd put his mask back on.

How could he have expected me to leave? What was that kiss, what did it mean? If I left then, would whatever happened be forgotten?

I felt made of glass, every facet of me threatening to shatter to pieces if I were to move.

Suddenly he ran his thumb across my lower lip, cupping my cheek, smiling. I must have looked like an idiot, confused, gawking at him.

“It's okay,” he had said. “Thank you for the kiss. Goodbye, Heero…”

Thank you? Was I being dismissed?

I had no idea what to do. Somehow I got my feet back under me and managed to lumber over to the gate. By the time security was patting me down and running me through the body scanners I managed to look over my shoulder, back towards the entrance of the spaceport. Trowa was nowhere to be seen.

I came home to L1 more confused than when I’d left. A week passed before I got a message on my phone from Trowa.

**_/Kiss and run?/_ **

Ironically, I’d been running on a treadmill. Upon reading the text I nearly fell off of the belt. I stopped the machine and, panting, fingers trembling, tapped out a reply.

/I didn't want to run./

A pause. Then a reply.

**_/I was hoping you'd say that./_ **

How was I supposed to reply to that? I’d been obsessing over him and that spaceport kiss that whole week, trying to work up the nerve to message him, but I had no idea what the next step was supposed to be.

A few minutes passed. There were no more messages.

He was waiting for me to say something, just as he had waited for me to act at the spaceport.

He wanted me to call this shot. I knew what I had to do. What did I honestly have to lose?

/I want to date you,/ I texted back, my fingers tripping over themselves to send it.

 ** _/Good./_**  — His reply.

Good!? Was that synonymous with 'yes’?

Another text.

**_/  :) /_ **

So it had meant yes.

Thus began our excruciating journey of long-distance dating. From that point on I lived on my phone, finding myself neurotically checking my messages at all hours of the night, sitting in my apartment between classes with it clutched in my hand, never letting it lose its charge.

I had moved to L1 shortly after resigning from Preventer to go to school. Now I was regretting being committed to anything. I wasn't free to leave. Trowa was traveling, the circus picking up and relocating every week or so, making it next to impossible to keep track of what time it was on his side of the line.

He had tried his best, sending me pictures of things he was seeing on his travels, calling me whenever he could, but it didn't seem like it was ever enough. I became angry about our arrangement. How could I have squandered all of the time that we had actually been together? Out of everyone, Trowa had been the person I had spent the most time with during the wars, and now I thirsted for him. I needed his company like I needed oxygen.

One night a month into our arrangement I found myself lying in my bed, staring up at the ceiling, feeling more empty and alone than I’d ever felt in my life. Up until then I didn't care for the company of anyone else, and prided myself on the fact that I could survive the world alone.

Still, I couldn't shake the memory of that night in the dressing room, how comfortable I felt to be with someone else, how natural I felt with Trowa. How I've always felt about him without really realizing it.

It was then that I decided I couldn’t go on like this anymore. What was the point of sitting around, being apart, wasting time? I had lived a hard enough life, why make it even harder on myself? On Trowa?

I began to formulate a plan.

Trowa had texted me. **_/We’re headed to Earth. It’s been a while./_ **

/Where on Earth?/ I had asked.

**_/Lisbon, Portugal./_ **

/Sounds interesting,/ I replied.

 **_/I love islands,/_ ** Trowa texted back.

I opened a new tab on my laptop and began searching for the soonest flights out of L1 to Europe.  
  
/Me too,/

 

The following day I had left L1 with a single bag, packed with my few belongings, not caring if and when I’d ever return.

So after two days of transorbital travel here I stand, stiff and tired, suffering the worst case of shuttle-lag in my life while I wait in line for the opening night of The Circus as they present their debut performance in Portugal, hoping to sneak in to surprise my boyfriend who just messaged me a picture of one of the beautiful multicolored cityscapes seen from a nearby hilltop. He’s somewhere nearby, hopefully unaware of my arrival. I want this to be a surprise.

The line finally moves, the chatter of locals speaking Portuguese intensifies while we all shuffle inside to find our seats. I’m in the front row, perfectly aligned with center stage.

This time I’m going to see everything. The last time I watched his performance on L4 from the sidelines, transfixed, in awe. I had no preparation then. I had no idea what I’d walked into.

Now I know what I’m in for. I’ve watched all of his practice tapes multiple times. He sends me videos and photos regularly of him in his workout clothes, wrapped in the smooth fabric, suspended high over an audience of his peers as he tirelessly practices new routines.

I feel excited, my heart is pounding frantically in my chest, its heavy throb filling my ears, mixing with the bass of the music as it floats into the air from the nearby orchestra pit. The stage goes dark, and then illuminates to reveal the first set of performers.

Trowa isn’t among them. Neither is he present for the next routine, nor the next until finally the music of his newest routine thrums through air, stirring my chest and emotions. I’ve heard it before, this distinctive music, faintly in the background of the short video clips he’s sent me of him practicing.

My suspicions are verified. Here he comes, shirtless and in nothing but a pair of dark green tights, walking smoothly out onto the stage, his usual graceful stride elongated for his performance. He stops beneath the suspended silks, poses, raises his arms and then grabs them, theatrically wrapping his forearms, his torso, and one of his thighs. Soon he’s lifted from the ground, inverted, twisting, vanishing in and out of the drapes of silk.

I sit there, stunned, jaw agape, watching him as he makes gravity his slave, turning his body in effortless angles. Elegantly displaying himself for all the world to see, despite the fact that he harbors his deadly secret. A secret the same as my own.

He may be beautiful, but he was once a ruthless killer. A soldier.

He’s wrapped in the silks, and with a twist of his body releases himself from the coil. The music stops. All becomes silent as he spins seemingly out of control towards the ground.

My heart leaps into my throat just as he catches himself a few feet from the unprotected stage. I’ve seen him drop like this before.

I’ve seen this spin before, once upon a time while in Heavyarms, his blade deployed, plowing down his enemy. Mercilessly killing a man who had been running from him.

It was a dark moment from our youth. He had fallen then, too, down to the ground, knees buried in ice and snow. His posture then was much like it is now. He’s dismounting his silks, crouching low, and then stands, his hand on his heart as if he had frightened himself with his fall. All of it for the theatrics.

The audience is roiling with excitement, standing, clapping wildly to thank him for such a thrill. I can’t help but feel proud of him, proud to be there _for_ him. I stand as well, applauding, smiling.

It’s then that he sees me. I feel his eyes upon me, and even from below the stage I see the flicker of his smile. He’s the most beautiful thing to ever grace that stage, the most stunning thing in the room, on this island, breathing the air of this planet.

As our gazes lock I’m glad that I’m there, happy I made this decision. He snaps out of our stare, quickly takes a bow and then vanishes into the darkness of the backstage.

I know that it’s rude, but I leave the audience anyway. I’ve waited too long for this moment, I can’t stand to wait any longer. I push through the ovation and make my way to the side entrance, push away the small loose flap of canvas that separates the audience from the secret belly of the performer’s backstage.

He’s there waiting for me. I knew he would be. Even in the dark I can sense he’s smiling. He wraps his sweat-kissed arms around me as we blindly seek one another’s lips in the dark. I find his face and kiss his jaw, claim his smiling lips. They’re just as I remembered them; soft, pliable, delectable, beckoning. I can’t stop kissing him. He’s breathless from his performance, gasping whenever he can. Finally he pulls away just long enough to whisper my name before I smother his mouth with another needy kiss. He chuckles against my lips.

“Come on,” he breathes, grabbing my arm, pulling me through the dark towards his dressing room. I can sense other bodies there, but it doesn’t stop me from groping his back, his shoulders, and his ass while he’s pulling me into the room. He flicks on a single overhead lightbulb, illuminating the small familiar space. It was set up as it had been the first time I had seen it with a vanity against the far wall, a few worn, sticker-ladened steam trunks strewn about with costumes draped over top them. A pair of plain black silks are hanging nearby over a thick cushion, obviously something he uses for warm-ups before performances.

The room smells like him. Sweet, earthy, pleasant. I’m surprised that I recognize it so easily.

There isn’t a way to lock his door. That’s fine. Getting caught is a risk I’m willing to take.

I can’t stop touching him. He’s smiling, not stopping my hands as they grab at his waist. I pull him close, rub the front of his body against my own. His sweat wipes off on the front of my t-shirt, leaving dappled splotches in its wake.

His hands apologetically smooth the cloth against my chest. I sigh, yank the damn thing over my head and throw it into a nearby open steamer trunk, the dark blue fabric mingling with the bright greens and electric blues of his performance costumes. He takes my shirtless chest between his hands, the flats of his thumbs boldly grazing my nipples, stroking them to stand at attention. He’s never touched me like this before. I feel my body heating up, a blush illuminating my cheeks.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming,” he murmurs. I respond by caressing his cheek with the palm of my hand, studying his face, brushing his damp hair away from his eyes with my fingers.

“Surprised?” I ask him.

“Yeah. Pleasantly,” he purrs and then he dips his lips against mine again. His hand moves to my hair, nails scratching at my scalp, tangling there, tugging lightly, forcing my entire body to start tingling. My pants are getting tight, a month of pure frustration manifesting in my cock. “I still can’t believe you’re here,” he whispers against my gasping mouth.

I grab his ass through his tights, my hands slipping easily against the smooth, silky fabric. It felt amazing in my hands. I’ve dreamt of doing this to him so many times that the action came easily. I feel the firm muscles of his cheeks as they tighten against my palms.

“Believe it…” I reply, kneading his ass, urging his hips forward. I can feel his hardness forming through his tights, nudging against my abdomen.

He groans. The sound makes my heart skip a beat. It’s a beautiful sound, throaty, sexy. I want him to do it again. I slide my finger along the slight indentation between his ass cheeks, pushing against it, cleaving the fabric, tucking it upward suggestively. He’s pulling me into a tight hug, burying his face against my neck. I wrap an arm around his waist, hugging his rocking hips against me. I push my finger further inside, teasing him.

His lips are against my ear. He’s moaning. My scalp prickles at the sound of my name uttered in lust. “Mmmn, Heero…”

I never knew someone could have such power over me. Right now Trowa could tell me to blast a hole through the center of a planet in that sultry voice, and I’d gladly do it.

I can’t help myself. Lockless door be damned, I plunge my hand into the waistband of his tights, seeking out his ass again, this time grasping it, skin to skin, hefting the deliciously tight lobe upward, my finger searching for his hole. His arms tighten around my neck, back stiffening as I find it. He’s rocking back against my touch, hips swiveling and rolling, his full arousal grinding through his tights against my stomach.

This is it. I’m finally here, finally touching him, his ass in my hand. I have him where I want him, and just as I always suspected he would, he’s going to let me take him.

We had never really talked about preferences before. I had jokingly told him when I saw him next I would top him, playfully calling him my power bottom. He hadn’t denied it. Now I know why.

With his permission silently granted, I attempt to peel away his ridiculously tight costume, managing to get it down around knees. He smiles at me, lifts one leg, and then the other, pushing the rest off with his feet. His hands are tugging the front of my jeans, snapping free the denim, pulling them off of my hips. Suddenly he’s on his knees and without warning takes my freed, aching cock into his mouth.

I can barely manage to keep my knees locked as he fills the circle of his lips with my heat, swallowing me into his mouth as far as I could go. I grab one of the overhead  practice silks to steady myself. He’s looking up at me, his black-painted eyes practically glowing in the dim light.

I still can’t believe how fucking hot he is. He grabs my ass with one hand and urges me forward. I feel the tip of my cock nudge the back of his throat. He’s still watching me, eyes half lidded, lusty, looking pleased with himself.  

Now I’m the one who’s moaning. I feel my knees trembling as he looks away, closing his eyes, effortlessly kneeling at my feet, worshipping my cock with slow, even strokes of his lips.

None of this feels real to me. For a brief moment I’m scared I’ll wake up, that this was just another one of my vivid, hopeful wet dreams.

But no. He’s still here. I can feel his soft, warm flesh against my hands, my fingers grasping his hair, touching his stunning face. I smudge his eye makeup with a thumb, dragging the black kohl across his upper cheek.

No. This is no dream. It feels better than anything I could’ve imagined.

He grabs my thighs, messaging them with his warm fingers, and pulls my jeans the rest of the way off, letting them gather in a pile at my feet. I’m so hard, so worked up, I can feel myself leaking. He tastes it and stops, pulls away, looks up at me with a smirk and then wipes the gloss of my precum away from the corner of his mouth.

He stands up. I wonder where he’s going. He takes a few steps backward and gathers some of the silk I’ve been holding into his hands, eyes locking with mine, wrapping the slippery fabric around his thighs, forming loose knots around his waist, looping a short length around his shoulder. Suddenly he lifts one of his legs upward and in doing so pulls another knot loose. A train of black fabric flutters to the floor behind him.

I now realize what he’s done. Somehow he’d managed to tie himself a harness with the silks and had looped them around his thighs, suspending his body above the ground, his knees tied against his chest, facing me with his thighs parted, ass open and ready for me to fuck him.

Was he planning to do this at some point, or had he done this before?

I can't find it in me to care.

“Lube, top drawer,” he says, tilting his head towards his dressing table. After a bit of digging I find it, barely used, hidden beneath a few bottles of makeup. I’m trembling as I pour it out into my hand. He’s holding himself upright, sitting in the air, a wrist wrapped through a length of silk over his head, watching me with his lips parted, chest heaving. His cock is hard, resting against his quivering his stomach.

My own cock is twitching. I try not to be too impulsive, and resist the urge to quickly coat myself and plunge into him.

As much as I’ve dreamt about him, about this moment, it’s not why I’m here.

I position myself in front of him, my erection resting firmly between his parted cheeks. I grab his cock and stroke it softly with my lubed hand. He moans my name again. I continue, greedily caressing him so I can hear him say my name in that irresistible voice, the sound mingling with his breathless groans.

Finally he’s so frustrated his face is turning red. “Heero… fuck me,” he pleads softly. I stop touching him. He’s watching me, confused.

God knows I want nothing more than to fuck him, but he needs to know this first. He needs to hear what I have to say.

Gently I grab his chin with my dry hand and tilt it so that he has to look up at me.

“You’re too perfect for me,” I whisper, my voice unusually tremulous. “Too good to me…” I lean forward so that our noses touch. My chest is tight, my voice ragged. “You’re beautiful. Intelligent. Loyal. Patient…” He’s staring at me. I can tell he’s confused — curious.

“I came here to see you. To see you perform, to watch you awe your audience. I wanted to touch you, to taste you again, to feel you from the inside,” I say without thinking, letting my emotions guide my words.

Trowa’s eyes are wide.

“The last month has made me so happy. I’ve never been happier,” I admit to him, releasing his chin to caress his cheek with the back of my hand. “Talking to you every day. Sharing your life with you… I wanted to see you. Your face. Your eyes… so I could tell you how I’m feeling.”

If ever there was a time to act on my emotions, it’s now. I brush his hair from his face so I can see it, take a deep breath and steady my voice for the next three words.

“I love you.”  
  
His lips are parted. He’s stunned.

“I came here to tell you that,” I say quietly. He stares at me, perfectly still, breathless. His eyes, widened, begin to shimmer with emotion. Suddenly he grabs my shoulder and yanks me forward into a kiss.

I know what it means. I know this man better than anyone.

I also known that he’s not the best at expressing himself with words alone, so now he’s _showing_ me how he feels.

I know that he loves me, too. He’ll never have to say it. He doesn’t need to.

The kiss deepens, he’s pulling me forward, twisting in his self-constructed bindings. I know what he wants. I don’t hesitate. Without breaking the seal of our lips I slicken my own cock, still hard, throbbing, wanting him. Carefully I rock against him, my tip nudging his entrance, slowly moving forward. His one free hand is grabbing my hair, yanking it, forcing my mouth to crush his own. His tongue is lashing my mouth, he’s gasping as I move into him, but he’s not asking me to stop.

He’s so tight I want to cry. My legs are shaking, I can barely stand. I find myself leaning into him, pushing until finally I’m fully inside him. He’s groaning into my mouth, his body tightening around my cock. I can’t move. I’m feeling numb, my body unable to process the raw emotion and overwhelming pleasure he’s giving me. He pinches one of my nipples, bringing me back into myself. I rock deeply into him. His cries are muffled by my mouth. He can do nothing but hang there, fully at my mercy.

This is his gift to me. He’s giving me himself, all of it, and the control that goes along with it.

He knows what I like. He knows me so well.

I keep kissing him, devouring his voice as I fall into pace, entering him, slipping out, gliding back into him again. With each thrust I make I form my own place inside him, delving into his body, making my dreams a reality.

It could very easily be a dream, this incredible, beautiful person strewn up and wrapped like a gift for me to fuck. How can I be so lucky?

I _am_ lucky. Trowa has been my good luck charm for as long as I can remember, my confidant, my closest friend. I don’t deserve him. He has to know that, but right now he clearly doesn’t care.

I’m so close. I can’t slow down. I know that I’m getting rough, he’s getting loud, tensing up within his cage of silks as I pound deeper into him.

It feels amazing. I’ve never felt anything like it. I don’t want to stop.

I don’t release his lips. Even when I can’t breathe and my lungs start to burn I keep kissing him, wanting him to  know how appreciative I am of this gift. I want to keep thanking him for letting me in.

His cock is leaking everywhere, his pained sounds lilted with pleasure. He’s biting my lip, his hand is grabbing my neck. He wants me to finish. I grasp his hips with both hands and swing him in his silks, pulling him towards myself as I meet him, flesh slapping flesh. The last few seconds are frantic. I can’t hold back anymore. I grab his hips to hold him still, push into his body as far as I can and release. He was already hot inside. My cum filling him makes it almost unbearable.

I can’t move. Buried to the hilt inside of him, I stand there, legs hopelessly shaking if I attempt to move them. At some point in the midst of me fucking him he had climaxed, the evidence of it was pooled in the center of his stomach.

He’s panting up at me, lips swollen and glistening, slick and sticky in the dim light. His cheeks are pink, his eye makeup smudged, hair a mess. I lift a quivering hand to smooth his bangs away from his eyes, and slide my finger along his lower eyelids to wipe away the messy smudge of thick, black eyeliner there.

Even as a thoroughly fucked mess, he’s still absolutely fucking perfect.

We don’t say anything. Finally I manage to get control of my body just enough to pull out of him. My cock is sore, aching from his tightness. He’s slowly pulling his arm free from one of the silks, carefully untangling himself. Eventually his feet come to rest on the floor. Once they do I grab him, pull him into a hug, and kiss the side his hot, sweaty neck. He chuckles, his voice sounds dry and raw from moaning.

“How long are you staying?” Trowa finally asks, his long arms sliding around my chest, hugging me back tightly.

“Forever,” I answer him automatically.

I never did buy a return ticket to L1. I knew it was a bold assumption, to think that he would let me stay with him, that I could just intrude on his personal space.

He didn’t say anything in reply. I frowned.

“You can tell me no,” I murmur, wondering if I really had crossed the line. Maybe he wasn’t ready to do this.

I pull back so I can look him in the eye. They’re surprisingly glossy, his eyeliner smudgy again. Hadn’t I just fixed that?

“No…” he whispered, shaking his head, smiling. “Forever is fine.”

I smiled and gently kissed the corner of his full, swollen lips. “I was hoping you’d say that.”


End file.
